And That Makes Sense
by StuckInMyDaydream
Summary: A short One-Shot in which Sherlock's mind is forcing him to answer the question: What makes sense? The answer is unexpected, but not suprising.


**This is just a short One-Shot I wrote at one in the morning. The idea came into my head and I had to write it down. Hope you enjoy it! This can be considered romantic, but doesn't have to. It my head it was though...I apologize for mistakes!**

**Reviews are greatly appreciated! ;-)**

It was a single question that had started all of this. A thought. Small and almost not worth of mention. Almost. What makes sense? The question really had randomly popped into Sherlock's head. They had solved a particulary difficult case, but John and him had split up in order to find that nasty bastard. It had worked obviously and now Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's office waiting for his friend.

He had given his statement and in the background Donovan and Lestrade were chatting about something, he wasn't listening. He had caught one word though: sense. What makes sense?

He huffed and tried to shove the question aside. It was silly. Ridiculous. A small part of his mind though refused to let the question go. And forced him to think about it. What makes sense? Well...

For the first time ever Sherlocks mind was blank. And then out of nothing impressions and pictures flooded his mind.

Pictures of _the game_. Sometimes him running down the streets of London, sometimes him and John chasing a killer, dead bodies, even Lestrade was in there occasionally. And all those images of the game, the thrill of the chase melted together and after all it were only colors swirling around in his head. Blood red. Muddy brown. Night blue. Darkness. Did the game make sense? Or was it the city?

Adding to that came impressions and memories of his music. A sweet melody, beautiful and melancholic all the same dancing around the sad images and color twirls. The sound of a fire crackling in the fireplace accompanied by the soft tune and he could smell his favourite tea. It left him behind with a sense of home. Did Baker Street make sense? Yes. No. Something was quite missing.

Sherlock was trapped in his own head. All those pictures he tried to focus on, all those noises he wanted to catch, but never quite get a grip on. Everything was blurred and rushed. Nothing would stay long enough for him to get the answer he was now so desperate to find. And he didn't know. He couldn't figure out why, but it was suddenly very important to find the answer. In the distance, under all those layers of images, colors, smells and melodies a voice was calling out to him. Could he just get through! Someone was calling him. From far away. But it drew closer. And suddenly it was there.

"Sherlock?" John's voice came from the doorway. John. John! That was when realization hit him like a gigantic wave and it all came crashing down on him. Emotions and thoughts flooded his head leaving it behind clear and sharp with only one thought echoing over and over again: John. Such an ordinary name, yet to Sherlock it held so much meaning.

He jumped out of the chair and basically ran towards his friend pushing the two police officers aside in the process. Somewhere in another dimension Donovan was complaining and Lestrade was asking him whether he was alright.

But Sherlock didn't notice. All he could focus on was the man he had come to a halt in front of. John shot him a questioning look. Sherlock smiled. He couldn't keep it inside. Later he would ask himself what had driven him. Though he never regretted. That was simply not something Sherlock Holmes did.

"Ready to go home?", John asked.

"John", Sherlock breathed out. John's brows furrowed. Sherlock's smile widened as he opened his arms and pulled John in a bone-crushing hug. John was startled and at first he only awkwardly patted the detective's back.

He relaxed though when Sherlock buried his face in his shoulder and mumbled something John couldn't quite make out, but it sounded suspicously like his name being repeated over and over again.  
Somewhere in another universe where the sky was less black and the stars were less bright two police officers stared at the pair. One in confusion, one in disgust. Sherlock didn't notice. If he did he couldn't care less. Because at the moment all his senses were filled with John. His friend. His home. John was all that mattered. And it felt so good.

"Sherlock", John muttered and buried his nose in his thick dark curls.

And in that very moment Sherlock swore himself to never ever let go again.  
And he held onto him. Forever and always and he finally found sense.


End file.
